


Last refuge of the scoundrel

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: FBI, False Accusations, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 12:33:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19251283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: hostage, blackWho gets to be a pawn in the conflict between law enforcement agencies?





	Last refuge of the scoundrel

==================

 

“Airport security people alerted us to him, sir. We found him carrying false ID,” the agent said, smiling.

“What goddam so-called patriot let him in?”

“Don’t know, sir. He claims diplomatic immunity as well, sir.”

“Have you called the Embassy?”

“No, sir. He says he doesn’t need their help.”

“What? Why not? Let me see this so-called ID.”

“Here, sir.”

<><><> 

The guard, checking on the prisoner, opened the window plate on the door and saw that he had regained consciousness. Sitting on the edge of the bed with his aching head in his hands, he looked oddly vulnerable and forlorn. The guard slid the window closed and went to get a coffee.

The prisoner looked up and tensed when he heard the door being unlocked. The guard came in carrying a cup of coffee and instead of arrogantly drinking it himself, as the prisoner clearly expected, he handed it to him. “I put some sugar in – don’t know if you take it or not, but you look like you need it,” he said.

The prisoner took it. “Thanks,” he said, surprised.

It was hot but, grateful for the caffeine kick and the sweetness, he drank it quickly, watched curiously by the guard, who took the cup back when he had finished. “Is there anything to eat?” asked the prisoner, hopefully.

“Someone’ll bring you something later, I guess,” said the guard.

“Where am I?”

“Headquarters – Field Office, New York, I should say.”

“Whose?”

“FBI – didn’t you know?”

The prisoner looked relieved. “Ah. Now I understand.” He looked up. “I need to phone _my_ headquarters – can I do that?”

The guard looked alarmed. “No, I can’t let you do that without permission.”

“It’s a New York number – public – perhaps you could call it _for_ me?”

His guard looked doubtful. “Please?” said the prisoner. “You’ve been so kind bringing me coffee. It would be such a little thing – and cause much less trouble than keeping me here.”

The guard looked at him suspiciously. “Trouble?”

“I work in this country quite legitimately – even the President knows about me.”

“The _President_ knows about you?”

“Yes. So I think I’ve been taken hostage.”

“Taken hostage?” This was getting so far above the guard’s pay grade that all he could do was repeat the prisoner’s assertions.

“Your chief wants me out of this country, so probably he wants something from my chief... But I don’t know why I had to be hit on the head because of it.”

This was within the guard’s comprehension. “Do you need a doctor?” he said, looking at the bruise under the fair hair on his prisoner’s broad forehead, and the black eye disfiguring his good looks.

“No, I’m fine. Just a headache. Will you make the call for me?

“I don’t know… See, you were carrying false ID and a weapon.”

“The ID is genuine,” the prisoner said patiently. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And the weapon is obligatory for Section Two agents.”

“Section… Can you prove it?”

The prisoner sighed. “If you make that call, I can.”

“Okay,” the guard said slowly. “I’m going off duty in ten minutes – I’ll make the call from a call box, not here. What’s the number and who do I ask for?”

<><><> 

Curtly summoned to Mr Waverly’s office and wondering what misdemeanour he might have committed, Solo made his way more quickly than usual, ignoring the distractions of tight skirts and long legs.

“I want you to come with me immediately to the New York Field Office of the FBI to retrieve your partner from imprisonment,” said Waverly without bothering to greet him.

“Imprisonment? Why?”

“That is what I intend to find out. _You_ will bring Mr Kuryakin back here and take him to the medics.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Apparently so, but as he communicated successfully with my source, he’s probably all right.”

“Your source?”

“One of the people guarding him – who has put himself in an invidious position by calling us. He may need help himself, of course.”

“From us?”

“I’m sure we can find a suitable vacancy if needed. Come, we’re wasting time.”

<><><> 

It was a different guard who opened the cell door and allowed the UNCLE agent in.

“Rise and shine,” said Napoleon. Illya sat up and seeing the state he was in, Napoleon said, “That’s a magnificent black eye – are you OK?”

Illya looked at him sourly. “Of course I’m OK. Just get me out of here, I’m starving.”

“Haven’t you even fed him?” said Napoleon angrily, turning to the guard in the doorway.

The latter looked sheepish and replied, “I guess someone forgot.”

“Do you know how much trouble has been caused already by the kidnap of an UNCLE enforcement agent?”

The new guard stammered that it had nothing to do with him.

“But you didn’t think of checking whether he needed to have a meal or a drink – or see a doctor, did you?” Napoleon’s normally suave, slightly humorous tones were no longer in evidence as he contemptuously looked the guard up and down. “It’s a duty of care even for a guard, isn’t it?”

The guard shifted his feet and wouldn’t look at him. Napoleon bent and helped Illya to stand. “Come, my friend. Let’s leave this fool to consider his position… Preferably upended down a drain.”

They walked down the corridor to the elevator, followed by the guard, who by rights should have been leading them. “Shoo,” said Napoleon, as they entered the elevator and left him behind.

<><><> 

“I shall make a formal complaint to the Director,” Waverly growled.

The head of the Field Office was well aware that this would have not the slightest effect, given the Director’s opinions on this subject, which were well known; but Waverly hadn’t finished. “Once and for all, my agents are responsible to me, not to you. If this happens even once more, I shall go to the top – and that does not mean your revered Director, but much higher.”

The threat to go to higher echelons of government might be a different matter. The officer therefore swallowed a too-hasty response, bowed slightly and muttered something about the patriotism of the Director. Waverly snorted a word that sounded suspiciously like ‘scoundrel’ under his breath and, taking up his hat, walked out to meet his two agents.

========================

**Author's Note:**

> Notes. Title from Samuel Johnson’s remark “Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel”, 7th April 1775.  
> i.e.: Patriotism used to dismiss claims of wrong-doing is not a credible defence.


End file.
